


Éclair de Lune

by tmthesaurus (Duat)



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-10-28 06:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10825932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duat/pseuds/tmthesaurus
Summary: The continuing adventures of Madison Clements, baker and cape wife.Featuring fan favorites like Dr Strangelove Or: How I Learned to Stop Hating and Love the Taylor and Confessions of a Former Mean Girl





	1. Chapter 1

Ah, Saturday. I’ve always liked Saturday. Ask anybody, and they’ll tell you that nobody appreciates a good Saturday more than Madison Clements. There’s just something almost spiritual about a day of relaxation after a busy week. The thirty seconds of nirvana I had experienced before I realized that the day was, in fact, Wednesday were perhaps the happiest of my life. As I got ready for work, I shot a glare at my so-called better half, who was sleeping smugly in our bed. Before we moved in together, I had thought it was impossible for a sleeping person to be smug.

 I ate breakfast in companionable silence, enjoying the solemnity of my bowl of sugar with traces of wheat. I made my partner’s lunch and left it on the counter with a post-it note reminding her that it was her turn to cook tonight.

 I arrived at the Busy Bee at 4:00. Claire, my apprentice pastry chef, was already there. We sanitized the work environment, checked our inventory, and prepared the ingredients for the goods we would be making that day. The sun was flirting with the sky by the time we began to bake. Claire was putting the final touches on a batch of macarons when our first customers arrived in the salon de thé.

 Mrs. Rogers was a teapot-shaped woman with a fondness for profiteroles. She ordered her usual cream puff and sugary coffee combo, and took a seat at the counter, preparing to update us on the daily dealings of the neighborhood. Mr. Jones, an elderly gentleman, was dressed in a tweed suit. He ordered a scone with jam and cream and a cup of Earl Grey, then sat at a table by the window and read his newspaper. John, the investment banker, ordered "an honest cup of Joe." It would probably be the only honest thing that would touch his lips for the day.

 Apart from the regulars, there was a mother and daughter, the former in her mid-20s and the latter around 4. The girl said something to the woman. The woman smiled and sat at a table. The girl came up to the counter. She was looking at her mother, who was gesturing for her to turn around when I spoke.

 “Welcome to the Busy Bee.” The girl yelped and ran over to her mother, burying her head in her lap. The woman stroked her hair and mouthed the words “first time.” I came out from behind the counter and walked to the pair. I knelt beside the girl and softly whispered, “Hi there. What’s your name?”

 “Catherine.” Her voice was muffled by her mother’s skirt.

 “Catherine, huh? I’m Maddie.” She looked up at me, tears threatening to spill from her eyes if I said the wrong thing. I smiled gently at her. “Did you want to get something?” She nodded. “Why don’t you come show me what you want, and I’ll get it for you?”

 “Okay.” Catherine took my hand and walked with me to one of the displays, then pressed her face against the glass. Every so often, she would take a step back, murmur something to herself, shake her head, then press her face against the glass again. After the fifth time, I glanced at her mother.

“It’s serious business,” the woman said. I giggled despite myself. Catherine looked at me, an adorable pout already forming.

 “Have you chosen something, Kitty Cat?” I asked, hoping to distract her. It seemed to work, as her face screwed up in thought. After a few moments, she gave a hesitant nod. “Are you sure?” She nodded again, this time with more confidence.

 “That one,” said Catherine. She pointed to a chocolate éclair.

 “An excellent choice, madam,” I said, provoking the titters of the peanut gallery, “and what will Mommy be having?”

 “A plaisir sucré,” said Catherine. She pronounced the words with some uncertainty as if the sounds were themselves an exotic food gracing her tongue for the first time. I accepted her payment and gave her her order. She held the plates as though they were saucers filled with milk for the queen of cats and carefully made her way back to the table. She placed the plates on the table and let out a happy squeal of victory. As she sat down to the cheers of her beaming mother, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. Serious business? There’s nothing more serious than a young girl saying “let me do it myself.”

 ###

 “I’m just saying that if President Walken isn’t secretly a parahuman, how do you explain his freaky eyes in this picture, huh?” said Jack. His wild gesticulation made it difficult to make out the so-called freaky eyes he was offering as proof.

 The lunch rush was over. The only people left in the tea house were the regulars, and they had long since gotten used to Jack. He was a sweet kid, starting his freshman year during my senior year at Arcadia. He was like a cross between a puppy and the editor of the National Inquirer—which sounds like the perfect National Inquirer headline—all guileless credulity and bright eyes.

 “Jackie, if Walken was a cape, don’t you think somebody would’ve noticed by now?” said Mary, the girl working the counter in the salon. “You need to think before open that mouth of yours, hun.”

 “Remind me why you aren’t in school, Jack,” I said. Jack had a tendency to wander when left to his own devices, and I was worried he had come here instead of going to class.

 “Free period,” said Jack.

 “And you’re definitely not cutting?” His face was the picture of shocked innocence, as though it had never even occurred to him that skipping class was a thing people did. Of course, I knew from personal experience not to trust a face on innocence alone. I may not have written the book on acting innocent, but I at least wrote the foreword for the latest edition.

 Two women in their mid-20s entered the patisserie. The taller of the two wore white jeans and a salmon colored chiffon sweater. Her honey blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Her auburn companion wore black shorts and a white blouse with black polka dots. I let them browse for a few minutes before coming to play the diligent shopkeep.

 “Can I help you with anything?” I asked.

 “I was in here last week, and I fell in love with your chocolate bread. We were wondering if you did events,” replied the auburn-haired woman.

 Technically, the answer to that question was a resounding “no.” Until that moment, I hadn’t even considered the possibility, but I nevertheless found myself hesitating to just walk away from a potentially massive order.

 Deciding the best course of action would be to hedge my bets, I said, “What kind of scale are we talking here?”

 “There’ll be around 300 guests at the wedding,” she said.

 “It’ll be in June,” added the blonde’s soft voice, her voice quavering as it hit that final vowel.

 Oh my gosh. To all outward appearances, I maintained my perfectly crafted façade of professionalism. Internally, however, I was squealing like a person who had a particularly good reason to be squealing. I had never managed to hit that growth spurt mom said would be coming any day now or rid myself of my cutesy looks, so whenever I encountered another woman who was similarly afflicted with the curse of perpetual adorableness, I inevitably found myself filled with glee. For all this woman’s chic fashion sense and statuesque beauty, she had the nervous disposition of a ten-year-old. Hang on, did she say—

 “Wedding?” I asked, fighting back a grin as I looked between the two women. They were family! I wondered if they’d join my book club, before realizing that I’d have to actually start a book club first.

 “Yes, my dear sister Abigail is settling down,” said the smaller woman, gesturing to her companion, who waved. Oh, that kind of family.

 “Congratulations,” I said to Abigail. The Amazon smiled weakly. “I think that should be manageable, but I’ll have to confirm that this doesn’t conflict with any pre-existing obligations. If you give me your contact details, we can call you and arrange a tasting. For now, could I perhaps tempt you with more of our pain au chocolat?”

 ###

 “What are we going to do, Ruth?” I felt guilty for phoning my manager, Ruth, and asking her to come in on her day off, but this wasn’t a decision I could make on my own. Ruth was my manager because I knew I didn’t have a head for things like this, and it’s her livelihood at stake, too.

 “That depends on whether or not we can provide enough cakes”—Ruth paused to take a long sip of her tea—“and pastries for 300 people in addition to the inventory required for the store.”

 “We could close the store on the day.” I frowned. Closing the story could hurt us, but it would be better than disappointing both sets of customers.

 “I don’t think that would be necessary. Our main bottleneck isn’t pastry output.” Ruth was now hunched over her tablet, her horn-rimmed glasses coming dangerously close to falling off her face. “Looking at previous June sales figures, we could expect to see around 350 pastries sold per day. How many éclairs could you make at once?”

 “Our oven’s capacity is around 500. Filling them all would be annoying, but that’s why God invented apprentices,” I said.

 “Be that as it may, we should be able to handle the load provided all the girls come in that day.”

 “So how many cakes and pastries will we need to prepare? I have no experience with catering.”

 Ruth ignored me and poured herself another cup of tea. Once the tea was deemed good enough to no longer demand her full attention, she answered, “Let’s say around five items per person at $20 a head. 300 guests, so that’s 1500 pastries and cakes for $6000.” I stared wide-eyed at Ruth, who sipped calmly at her drink. “That’s just for a simple dessert table. If they want something fancier, we can adjust the price to match.”

 “You mean we finally have a way for this bakery to start making some real dough?”

 Ruth groaned, the traditional response to great puns. “Why do I put up—” A klaxon sounded from my cell phone, interrupting what I’m sure was yet another deeply flawed rant about my sense of humor and subsequent worth as a human being. Ruth sighed and said, “Go ahead.” I smiled apologetically and turned my attention my phone.

 I had received a news alert about one of my watched terms. I opened the news feed app and felt the blood drain from my face. An image of a burning skyscraping filled the screen. At the bottom of the screen were the words “Blink in death-defying rescue.” The image turned to video shot from a cell phone. The footage showed Blink saving a person—I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman—who had apparently thrown themselves out of a window in an attempt to escape the flames. Blink appeared and grabbed the freefalling figure. My breath caught in my throat as I watched the two hurtle towards the ground. After what felt like an eternity, the two figures the vanished from the screen, leaving the image of the towering inferno to burn itself into my memory.

 My throat felt like it was constricting. I couldn’t hear much over the sound of my pounding heart. I scrolled through my contact list until I came to Taylor’s name. After a few misses, my shaking hands managed to place a call. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. She answered on the first ring.

 “I’m fine, honey,” said Taylor.

 “I know, I know. I just”—I took a deep breath and tried to collect myself—”I just needed to hear your voice.” I felt like a massive weight had been lifted thanks to those three little words.

 “And so hear it you shall.” I listened as Taylor told me about her day. The more she spoke, the more my heart rate calmed.

 Once my heart was under control again, I said, “Don’t you have to give a report or something?”

 “That can wait. Right now, I’m here for as long as you need me.”

 “I wish you were here. Why did I give Ruth the office?”

 “Because she’d use it for things other than secret rendezvous with your cape lover.”

 I giggled. “Calling it a secret rendezvous makes me feel like we’re back in high school, stealing kisses behind the bike shed.” I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. “I should probably get back to work. It looks like we’ll be getting a $6000 order.”

 Taylor said, “That’s fantastic. I am so proud of you. We’re definitely talking about this tonight.”

 “Ok. Love you.”

 “Love you, too.”

 I hung up and looked at Ruth. “Let’s get back to business.”

 ###

 The bakery’s official closing time was 4 PM, but on most days, I liked to give the customers a little extra time to finish up. That plus the housekeeping—literal and figurative—that needed to be done usually meant I left work at 5. Today, however, I left that in Ruth’s hands; my hands had better things to do.

 I listened to the radio on my drive home from work. I sang along as best I could, belting out half-remembered words to some power ballad. I was nearly at my apartment building when my cell chimed, alerting me to a new message’s arrival. It could wait—Taylor would kill me if she knew I was texting while driving.

 I pulled into my park and rode the elevator up to the 14th floor. The elevator wasn’t the most responsive, so I used the wait as an opportunity to read the text I had received. It was short, just three words long.

Taylor: _can’t cook tonight_

“Damn it, Taylor,” I muttered to myself. I knew it wasn't fair. My day had almost been ruined by watching her risk her life; I couldn’t imagine how she must have been feeling. Still, I wished she’d told me earlier. Empathy doesn’t put food on the table.

I let myself into our shared apartment and called out, “Honey, I’m house.” It was a silly ritual we had whenever one of us came home. We had been doing it for so long, that I could no longer remember why we intentionally flubbed the line.

“Welcome home,” said Taylor from the door to our bedroom. The smile on her face was warm and gentle, like a litter of puppies. Her eyes, on the other hand, were tired, like a puppy that had just rescued a man from a burning building. She held her arms open, and I melted into them. I closed my eyes and let the sound of her heartbeat drown out everything else. When I eventually opened my eyes, we were no longer in our apartment.

My first clue was the lack of light. The only source of light was a candle burning on a small table. The candle’s only companions were a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. I twirled around, taking in the scenery. We were standing on a cliff overlooking an inlet. The air was still and smelled of salt, and I wondered how far the nearest settlement was.

My phone chimed again. I opened the message and chuckled.

Taylor: _let’s eat out instead_

I wrapped my arms around Taylor’s neck and pulled her down for a toe-curling kiss. After the fireworks had cleared, I looked her in the eyes and said, “I love you, Taylor Hebert.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the first chapter. I hadn't intended to publish this for quite some time, but it turns out instant gratification feels really good in the moment. If you're wondering how the hell Madison and Taylor ended up together, that will be answered in due time.
> 
> I am indebted to the users of the Cauldron Discord server, particularly Nihilistic Janitor, somnolentSlumber, and LacePrisonQueen.
> 
> This is a post-GM AU. The point of divergence is 2010, aka Madison's freshman year of high school. The story will alternate between the future and the past


	2. Chapter 2

“I hate you, Taylor Hebert,” I said, packing as much venom into the five words as possible. It wasn’t much—it’s hard to muster up hatred when summer vacation is about to start. I glanced at Emma and saw her nod almost imperceptibly. I shot her a brief grin and ran to Winslow’s main entrance. It was time to put Taylor Hebert and Winslow out of my mind forever, or at least until September.

Julia was waiting out front. She lived a few doors down from me, so we’d walked home together most days since middle school. We had been in the same class since the third grade, but neither one of us had realized we lived so close to each other until the seventh.

Talking to Julia was a balancing act. I wasn’t as boy-crazy as she was, so I never had anything to contribute when the subject inevitably turned to whichever random beefcake had caught Julia’s eye that day. On the other hand, she could be counted on to provide more than her fair share of laughs, as long as I could keep her mind from wandering too far. I wasn’t feeling up to reigning her in, so I resigned myself to 10 minutes of boy talk and forced smiles.

“So what are you doing over the summer?” asked Julia. She was bouncing way too much for somebody just wanting to know what her friend’s plans are. Hell, she was probably bouncing way too much for anyone.

“Um—”

“I’m going to stay at my aunt’s house in LA. She’s going to Hawaii, so I’m going to housesit for her.”

“Alone?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Will you be all by yourself?” Julia had only just turned 15; the thought of her being alone in a strange city made my stomach clench.

“No, I’ll be babysitting my mom, too. Anyway, remember that guy I told you about? The one who won me that stuffed panda when I went to Santa Monica?”

“Not r—”

“I’ve been talking to him online, and I think we’re maybe sort of dating?” She furrowed her brow. “No, we’re definitely dating.”

“I hope he knows that,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“I said ‘I hope he knows that.’” Oh god, why did I repeat myself?

Julia laughed and bumped my hip. “You’re such a bitch, Maddie. Anyway, we’re going to meet up while I’m in California.”

“Are you sure it’s safe? What if he’s really Heartbreaker or something?”

“California is nowhere near Quebec. God, you sound like my mom. Well if you hate my summer plans so much, what are you doing?”

What was I doing? Or, more accurately, what could I tell her I would be doing? I was going to have my very first job over the summer, but I was terrified of messing up and embarrassing myself, so I hadn’t told any of my friends about it. What’s a plausible lie?

“Making sure Allie is ready for middle school. What kind of big sister would I be if I left her to the wolves?”

“Mine. Can you believe Kennedy didn’t want anything to do with me this year? Unbelievable.”

“Julia, Kennedy is in college.”

Julia harrumphed. “You always take her side.”

We chatted some more before we reached my house. I hugged her goodbye for the summer and promised that I wouldn’t become a recluse. I walked in through the front door and took my shoes off, placing my flats next to Allie’s haphazardly thrown sneakers.

“I’m home!” I said.

“About time!” came my sister’s response. “Come here, Maddie; I need your help.”

I went into the den and flopped onto the couch beside her. “What do you want?”

“I’m stuck on this star,” said Allison. We were playing through Mario 64 together. The villains Über and Leet had started to record and upload their capers online. Allie and I had become fans of the show; sure, they were little more than 8-bit crooks, but it was hard not to root for them when their plans blew up in their faces. Dad had seen us watching and pulled out his old Nintendo 64, so we would get their references.

We took turns controlling Mario, trading whenever one of us died or got a star. After an hour of play, Mom came in and told me I had a phone call. I took the phone into my bedroom, wondering who I knew that wouldn’t just call my cell.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello, is that Madison? This is Miriam Goldstein from the Busy Bee. You were scheduled to start work here on Monday?”

“Is there a problem?” I wondered if it was possible to be fired from a job before you had even started.

“No. Well, yes, but not with you. I was wondering if you could come in Sunday instead?”

“Of course,” I answered automatically. “What time do you need me?”

“Be here at 11:45. I need to go over a few things with you before you start your shift.”

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Clothes will suffice. Goodbye, Miss Clements.”

I ran downstairs to put the phone in its dock. Mom scolded me for running indoors.

“Sorry, Mom.” I began to walk away, then stopped and turned to face Mom. “That was Mrs. Goldstein. She asked if I could start Sunday instead of next week.” I took in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. “Canyougivemealifttowork?”

Mom cocked an eyebrow. “You want to run that one by me again? Slower this time,” she said.

“Can you give me a lift to work?”

She stared me dead in the eyes without blinking for at least thirty seconds. Luckily for me, that just makes it easier to give her puppy dog eyes. Finally, she sighed. “What time do you start?”

My face broke into a grin. “Mrs. Goldstein told me to be there at 11:45.”

Mom turned her attention back to the stove. “I should really make you ride your bike.”

“Yeah, but you won’t because I’m your favorite.”

“Hey!” Allie had wandered into the kitchen in time to hear me. “I thought I was your favorite,” she said as she looked through the fridge.

“Allison June Clements, don’t even think about eating. Dinner will be ready soon, and I don’t want you to ruin your appetite.” Allie closed the fridge and pressed her back against it. Mom had an uncanny ability to sense when one of us was going to ‘spoil our appetite.’ We had a theory that she was a cape. “Neither one of you is my favorite.”

“You mean you hate both of us?” I said with mock horror.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” asked Mom.

“Well, maybe just say if you hate Allie.” Allie cried out in indignation. I ruffled her hair. “I didn’t say I hated you, Alleycat. I’m much more reasonable than Mom.”

“I guess that means I’m not driving you to work Sunday, seeing as how I’m so unreasonable.” This time, the cry of indignation was my own. Mom laughed. “Don’t worry, Madison. I’ll still give you a lift, but you have to clean the car tomorrow. Does that sound reasonable to you, Allie?”

“Very,” said my traitorous sister. Two can play at that game.

“That sounds like a two-woman job. Can I get Allie to help?”

“That’s fine with me,” said Mom.

“Great,” I said, then ran off before Allie could object. I needed to prepare my outfit for Sunday.

###

Ten minutes. I had been sitting in the car waiting for Mom for ten minutes. If we were somewhere other than Maine, I could have died in ten minutes. Fortunately, the only thing I stood to die from was boredom; there was only so many times I could adjust my hairpins without it sending me insane.

“Maybe they’ll call me ‘Mad Mad,’” I said to nobody. I almost jumped out of my skin when nobody answered.

“Talking to yourself, Mad Mad? I guess the name fits,” said Mom.

“Jesus, Mom, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Are you ready to go?” asked Mom. I stared incredulously at Mom. “Relax, I was joking.” I continued to stare until she started the car. “Nervous about your first day?”

“I can do this,” I said, as much to myself as to Mom.

“Of course you can, sweetie. I believe in you, and I’m sure your friends do, too.”

“I’m sure they don’t. They’d have to know about it, first, and I haven’t told them.”

“Why not?”

“What if I mess up?” I mumbled into my hands. Mom made a show of cupping her ear, and I sighed. “What if I mess up?” I repeated, louder this time. “I've never had a job before; what if I make a huge mistake and ruin Mrs. Goldstein's bakery? It's a bakery, Mom; I could literally end up with egg on my face.”

“I'm sure your friends would be supportive.”

“Maybe things were different when you went to high school, back when everyone was more concerned about the British burning down the White House, but these days, if the sharks smell blood in the water, they'll bite. No remorse, stone-cold killers.”

“And these girls are your friends?”

“They're still vultures.”

“I thought they were sharks,” said Mom. “Don't use two metaphors; it's bad writing.”

“They're flying robot sharks that shoot lasers. It doesn't matter!”

Mom reached over and rubbed my back. “Relax, honey. If you don't want to tell your friends, you don't have to,” she said as we pulled up to the Busy Bee. “Madison, look at me.” I turned to face her. “I'm proud of you. I'm sure you'll do great, but even if you do mess up, I'll still be proud of you.”

I leaned over and wrapped Mom in the biggest hug I’d ever given. “Thanks, Mom,” I whispered in her ear. Breaking our embrace, I climbed out of the car. My reflection stared out at me from the bakery’s plate glass window. We gave each other a quick once-over and nodded approvingly. I was wearing a cobalt blue skirt with a ring of tulips circling the bottom and a turquoise blouse. The blouse was thanks to Emma. Her plans with Sophia had been scuffed by some emergency track meeting, so she dragged me down to the boardwalk to watch her model outfit after outfit. I didn’t really mind; she was a naturally talented model, and she somehow made staring at her for hours incredibly engaging. It was during Emma’s impromptu fashion show that I saw the blouse and promptly fell in love with it. Emma had discarded it for not complimenting her more generous figure, but it looked great on me.

I shook my head and entered my new workplace. Mrs. Goldstein, a middle-aged woman with straw-colored hair in tight curls, was serving a customer, so I waited for her to finish while looking at a display filled with a bewildering array of tarts. She put the customer’s order in a box and sent him on his way.

“Mrs. Goldstein?” I said, hating myself for the questioning tone. I already knew who she was; we had met when I handed in my application.

“You’re here,” said Mrs. Goldstein. She had a matter-of-fact way of speaking that made gauging her thoughts difficult. “Come into my office.”

Mrs. Goldstein went over my various duties as a Busy Bee worker. I immediately noticed a common theme: washing dishes, mopping floors, taking out the trash… At least ninety percent of my job would consist of cleaning. If the demand overwhelmed whoever was working the register, I could help out with the customers, but most of the time, I’d be stuck doing the least glamorous jobs.

Mrs. Goldstein left me to sign a few papers while she handled some problem in the kitchen. When she hadn’t returned after five minutes, I decided to look for her. I walked into the kitchen and came face-to-face with the last person I was expecting.

“Taylor? What the hell are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first "flashback" chapter. Going forward, odd chapters will be set in the future and even chapters set in the past.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

They say that silence is golden. Sometimes, it's more of a gilded cage. Our very first gig as dessert caterers was that afternoon, and I was terrified that we wouldn't have enough time to prepare. My fear was so palpable that I called Claire at 11 last night and demanded she come in and assist. We had been working non-stop for three hours, and the oppressive silence was weighing on me.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Usually, we're chatting and joking while working.”

“Usually, you haven't called me into work five hours before my shift starts. Sorry that I'm not sufficiently entertaining.”

I sighed. She was right. Of course she was right. If making her come in to assuage my fears put me firmly in terrible boss territory, expecting her to make me feel comfortable at the same time was like running for public office. Maybe not as the governor or a mayor, but I was definitely up for a seat on a school board.

“I don't know if this is even possible, but I somehow feel like the smallest person in the world as well as the biggest asshole.”

She didn't say anything, but she did crack a smile. It was barely deserving of the word, but I'd take whatever victories I could find.

After another fifteen minutes of silence, Claire said, “Did you watch the first episode of that new show on HBO last night?”

“No.”

“You should check it out; it's wonderful” She waited for a few beats then said, “Do you want me to grab another bag of sugar? The bin is running low.”

“I can get it. You put this batch of cream puffs in the oven.” I grabbed a huge bag of sugar and schlepped it across the kitchen. “What's the show about?”

“Two childhood friends running rival gangs. William Fichtner is the lead.”

“Who?”

“He was in that show about breaking out of the Birdcage.”

“Could you get more eggs and cream? I need to make more of this filling,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Wasn’t Wentworth Miller in that?”

“Yeah, but I'm not talking about him.” Claire’s voice was muffled slightly by the industrial fridge’s thick walls. “I'm talking about the PRT guy who tries to catch him.” She brought out the eggs and cream and put them into the floor-mounted mixer.

I poured in flour and sugar and activated the mixer. “Are you sure Wentworth Miller isn't on this show?”

“Positive.”

“I think we should take a moment to reflect on the implausibility of the name ‘Wentworth Miller,’” I said. 

“Let me know when you're done making fun of the man; I'd like to get back to what I was talking about.”

“I'll be good.”

“Okay.” Claire carried a tray of éclairs into the fridge. “So, William Fichtner is this big time gang boss. I don't know if he's a cape, but all his capos have powers.”

“Capo?”

“Gangster lieutenants.”

“Look at you, Ms. I-Know-Mafia-Terms. You're not hiding a villainous past from me, are you?”

“Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do,” said Claire, affecting a ridiculously cheesy movie gangster voice. “Capisce?”

I grinned. “So what does this show have besides William Fichtner and gangsters?”

“There’s this one scene where William Fichtner is talking to his lackeys in his penthouse suite. The camera moves past him, through the window and across the street to Gabriel Byrne's—”

“Gabriel Byrne?”

“He's the rival boss. Anyway, the camera moves into his office across the street, and the scene continues over there. All of this without a single cut. There has to be a rogue working on the show.”

“What was it called?”

“Sodom and Gomorrah. I don't know why it's called that, but the first episode aired an hour before you called me in.” She shrugged.

“Sorry about that.”

“I'm over it, but I'd still better get a great performance review.”

“We don't do performance reviews.”

“Well, there goes my one incentive for not slacking at work.”

We continued bantering while we worked on the wedding order and the bakery's daily selection. 

As the hours dragged on, and we gradually ran out of the usual conversation topics, we found ourselves forced into more unusual fare. 

“I’m telling you, E.T. is a metaphor for Scion. People don’t like talking about it because, you know, pchoo”—Claire mimed an explosion with her hands—”but it makes perfect sense.”

“You’re going to have to explain this one to me.”

“Okay, so you’ve got this weird alien dude who just appears one day and is all glowy and heals a bunch of people. And after he appears, these kids can suddenly fly? Yeah, nice try, Spielberg. We all know what the movie was really about.”

I had a vague feeling that E.T. predated Scion, but I didn't really know what was happening and she sounded so confident. In the end, I just kind of agreed with her and let the conversation move on.

We were putting the final batch of tarts into the fridge when Ruth arrived.

Ruth stared at the fruits of our labor. “What happened to the plan, Madison? You were supposed to bake throughout the day.”

“I may have panicked and subsequently mismanaged our time,” I said.

“Poor Claire looks dead on her feet.”

“I’m fine.” Claire’s eyes were bloodshot and slightly unfocused. She was swaying very gently.

“If I opened a window, the breeze would probably knock you down.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “I hate to agree with Ruth, but you do look awful”—Claire opened her mouth to interject—”and I know that I probably look worse. We should both get some shut-eye.”

Ruth grabbed my arm as I was walking to the door. “I know you wanted to make the delivery yourself, but this is too big to get wrong. If you’re not back by 12:30, I’m sending one of the girls in your stead.”

I nodded and left. The drive home was uneventful. Once I got there, I shambled into the bedroom and fell face forward onto the bed. Sleep called to me. I welcomed it like an old friend.

###

I didn’t make it back on time. My disappointment over missing the delivery was tempered by Ruth’s assurances that it was a success in all other regards.

“I just wish I could have seen their faces” It was tempered, not eradicated.

“We get it,” said Mary.

“Hell, we got it before you; we were awake for the delivery,” said Meadow, acclaimed deliverer of pastries.

I groaned and sank deeper into the chair. “Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating? All you’ve done so far is make me more miserable.”

“Fire them all and replace them with obsequious toadies, honey.” Taylor walked into the tea room carrying a pile of vinyl records. “I found Mrs. Goldstein’s old collection. Does the gramophone still work?” When we purchased The Busy Bee from her, she had only two requests: we never open on Saturday, and we keep the gramophone on display.

“There’s only one way to find out.” I took the top disc from the pile and put it on. Fred Astaire’s unassuming voice filled the tea room. 

My beloved caressed my jaw and smiled. “It’s a crime to listen to  _ Cheek to Cheek _ without dancing.” Taking my hand, she pulled me into the area formerly occupied by tables. I couldn’t manage cheek to cheek, so I settled for leaning against her shoulder and gazing up at her. We held each other and swayed like we were still awkward teenagers.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered, enraptured by her inner glow.

She blushed and turned away. My heart clenched. Despite years of affirmations, she had never managed to shake the feelings of inadequacy brought on by our adolescent cruelty. She wasn’t a pageant queen, but conventional attractiveness offered such a limited perspective of beauty. It left no space to appreciate things like  _ joie de vivre _ or a caustic wit.

I sang along with Fred Astaire. My approach to singing was to aim for the general vicinity of the right note and hope for the best. What I lacked in technical ability, I more than made up for in moxie. A sudden stray thought had me in a fit of giggles.

“What?” asked Taylor.

“I just realized that if I’m singing Fred Astaire’s part, you'd be Ginger Rogers. It’s not really all that funny; it was just unexpected.” The music faded, and I excused myself to acquire a drink.

I sipped my glass of orange juice and surveyed the room. The close of business had turned into an impromptu celebration, with workers mingling with the remaining customers. Mary and her boyfriend, Sean, were talking to a pair of yuppies who could have walked right off the set of  _ Wall Street _ . Taylor, who didn’t know anyone besides Ruth and me, had latched onto her the moment I left. Meadow was dancing with some random teenybopper. Of the customers who weren’t at that moment engaged in some fashion with one of my employees, only two were alone. Mr. Jones, who liked to pretend to be curmudgeonly, and a waif in a hoody. She had been playing with a slice of Saint Honoré’s cake for the better part of twenty minutes. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl, but I couldn’t place it.

At around 6:30, I called for the music to be turned down.

“I just want to thank you all for being here. Patrons and staff, this place wouldn’t be possible without you.” I paused to a smattering of applause. Is it weird to applaud yourself? “The Busy Bee is incredibly important to me. I wouldn’t have become the woman I am today without it. It gave me my livelihood and my wonderful wife. So, you know, thanks.”

Taylor hugged me fiercely and said, “When it comes time to hand out awards for the greatest orators of all time, I’m sure you’ll get a ribbon for participation.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nihilistic Janitor has earned my eternal gratitude. I also thank Pita and RavensDagger, along with the rest of the Cauldron Discord
> 
> Thank you for reading. It really means a lot to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Three hours may not seem like much, but a girl can learn a lot in that time. I, for example, had learned that our so-called civilization was built on a tissue of lies. I had spent the first three hours of my new life as a wage slave cleaning up after wild animals, presumably as a reminder that we live in a cruel and fundamentally unjust universe, and was now being sent to deal with the beasts directly.

“Welcome to the Busy Bee. What can I get you?”

“A Whoopie Pie, ” said the customer, a man in a sharp suit who was doing a convincing impression of a walking stick. My giggle fit at the ensuing mental image was met with a questioning look from the man.

“I just remembered something funny from _Citizen Kane_ ,” I said as I handed over his tasty treat.

“That may have worked on him, but don’t think you can fool me,” said Stacey, my fellow worker bee, once he was out of earshot.

“I was imagining him as a walking stick.”

Stacey groaned. “Is this the sort of thing I can expect from you? Bad puns and insults hurled at the customers?”

“Not just the customers.”

“Can I get a slice of chocolate cake?” asked a twentysomething wearing a Companion Cube t-shirt.

“I’m sorry, but the cake is a lie.”

“What?”

“It’s a _Portal_ reference.” Seeing his blank face, I added, “The video game? You’re wearing a _Portal_ shirt.”

“I stole this from my dormmate. It’s laundry day.”

“Oh.” We stared at each other for a month’s worth of awkwardness compressed into ten seconds.

“Here’s your cake, sir,” said Stacey, rescuing me from myself.

“There ought to be a law against wearing shirts if you don’t get the reference,” I muttered under my breath.

“I’m not gonna lie, that was the most pitiful attempt to talk to a boy I’ve seen since the Fairground Fiasco of ’08.” Stacey put her arm around my shoulder. Her tone and mannerisms reminded me of the way I sometimes spoke to Allison, especially when I wanted to annoy her. “Maybe you should leave the college boys for someone with a little more experience. I mean, I can’t blame you for trying something. Did you see his abs? You could probably bounce a quarter off them.”

“Huh?” Okay, that last part wasn’t something I’d say to Allie. I guess he was cute if you’re into square jaws and huge biceps. I just wanted to talk about _Portal_. The sequel would be coming out ne—

“And who knew little Madison was a closet geek?”

“What? I’m not a geek.”

“It’s okay to come out, Madison. Admitting you’re a geek is the first step to recovery.”

“I’m really not a geek; I just like video games. My little sister and I started watching Über and Leet’s stream—”

I was interrupted by the sound of metal crashing against the tiled floor. Taylor stood at the threshold to the kitchen, an empty baking tray lying at her feet. Her face had turned bright pink, and she mumbled a bashful apology.

“So you like capes? Or do bad boys get your motor running?”

“Is this what having a big sister is like? I really should thank my parents for practicing birth control.”

Stacey laughed. “So, Über and Leet?”

I shrugged. “They’re funny, and they aren’t, like, Hookwolf bad, y’know?”

“How would we know? Maybe they’re worse, but nobody knows on account of the whole gross incompetence thing.”

“They aren’t incompetent.” I paused. “Well, not grossly incompetent.”

“Sorry for insulting your favorite capes.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them my favorites.”

“So who is?”

“I’ve never really thought about it. Alexandria, I guess. Who do you like?”

“Local or anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

“Either way, my answer’s Battery. Other capes might be more powerful, but none of them feels like they really care about the community, you know? Battery’s different. I’m a Girl Scout Ambassador. She always makes time for our troop. That means a lot to me.” Stacey turned towards Amanda, who was carrying a trayful of donuts from the kitchen, and said, “Hey Mandy, who’s your favorite cape?”

“Laserdream. She’s been my favorite ever since I found out she was a cape. I probably would have failed 6th-grade math without her,” said Amanda.

“A cape tutoring some brainless schmuck? That’ll be the day.”

“Actually, she let me copy her answers, so there.” Amanda poked her tongue out at Stacey, who focused her attention on the customer she was serving.

“You know Laserdream?” I asked.

“She was just Crystal back then.”

“Even so, it’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” said Stacey.

“To think of capes as real people.”

“Of course they’re real people.”

“I know, but they’ve always felt larger than life. It’s just, you know, weird that Alexandria might be a scrapbooker.”

“Probably not. She has an eidetic memory,” said Taylor. Had she been there the whole time? “That means she-”

“I know what it means,” I said. “I’m not an idiot.”

After about ten seconds, Stacey said, “I wonder if lampshading an awkward silence does anything to alleviate the awkwardness.” We all stared at her. “Turns out it doesn’t.”

Amanda cleared her throat. “So, who’s your favorite cape, Taylor?”

“Alexandria. When we were kids, my best friend and I would pretend to be capes. I was always Alexandria,” said Taylor, her voice hitching a little when she said the f-word.

“Oh, hey! You’ve got something in common with Madison,” said Stacey.

“I’m not so sure. You were pretty persuasive about Battery.” I smiled at the newest arrival, a woman in a power suit that made her look like an extra in _Wall Street_. “Welcome to the Busy Bee, ma’am. How can I help you?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stacey staring at me. Did I say something wrong?

Two girls entered the bakery. Recognizing the prettier of the two from my French class, I decided it was high time I made like a tree and got out of there. I shouted something about taking my government mandated fifteen-minute break and ran out the back, only to find myself face-to-face with Taylor.

“Taylor!” I said in a way that was decidedly unsqueaklike. If anything, I did the opposite: a kaeuqs. “What are you doing out here?”

“What am I doing out here? What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be jumping at the chance to treat your fellow minions to your employee discount.”

“At least I have friends to avoid.”

Almost instantly, she seemed to deflate. “I wish I didn’t,” she said. Her voice was almost too quiet for me to hear; maybe I wasn’t meant to. She started walking towards the door.

“Taylor, wait.” She stopped and looked at me. Had her eyes always been that lifeless?

“Do we really get an employee discount?” She sighed and trudged back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

As promised, Mom picked me up at the end of my shift. As soon as my seatbelt was buckled, she asked me how my first day went.

“I am no longer the naive girl you once knew. She is dead; her spirit crushed and remolded by forces far beyond mortal understanding. Market forces. I am now a cog in the massive capitalist machine.”

“That’s nice, dear. Can cogs eat at Fugly Bob’s, or will we have to give your dinner to Allison?”

“You can’t do that! If anything, cogs need twice as much as their little sisters, especially the ones who haven’t worked a day in their lives.”

Mom laughed. “Okay, honey.”

“Mom, what does ‘eidetic’ mean?”

###

“We need to talk,” said Mom.

“In a minute.” Allie and I were playing _Metal Gear Solid_. We had gotten to the first boss fight against Revolver Ocelot, and I was finally having a good run.

“Now, Madison.”

I sighed and handed Allie the controller. “Don’t mess this up, Alleycat.” I followed Mom out of the den. As soon as we were out of the room, I heard the telltale sounds of the C4 being set off.

“I just read your report card.” Oh. “Judging from the look on your face, I think you know where this is going. Three Cs and a D.” She looked at me, clearly expecting me to play my part.

“I don’t know how things worked when you were a kid, but these days, we call that passing.”

Mom folded her arms. “Stop kidding around. In middle school, you got As and Bs.”

“In middle school, the work was easier.” Mom opened her mouth to speak, but I just kept going. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll try harder next year? I tried my hardest this year, Mom. You’ve seen how that turned out.”

“Maybe the problem isn’t how hard you’re trying, but how smart you’re trying.”

“Great, now you’re calling me dumb, too.”

Mom wrapped her arms around and squeezed me in one of those hugs that all moms seemed to know—the type that feels like breakfast in bed on a Saturday morning. “Oh honey, of course, you’re not dumb. I meant that maybe your learning strategy isn’t right for you.” She pulled back and looked me in the eye. “I know you can do better than this.”

“I’m never going to be a Rhodes Scholar. At best, I might be a Rhode Island Scholar.”

“Honestly, I think I’d prefer your made-up scholarship to the real thing. Being a Rhodes Scholar means studying in England.”

“Huh. I’d never really thought about what it actually meant. In my head, it’s just been something they say about smart people in movies.”

“Anyway, we’re going to work on developing a plan that works for you over the summer.”

“Maddie!” said Allie.

“Don’t shout when Mom’s around!” Mom was unimpressed, so I added, “Or when she isn’t around!” I gave Mom my winningest smile.

“I don’t know why I bother.”

I ran back into the den and dove onto Allison.

“Get off, Maddie.”

“Not until you say the magic word.”

“Mom!”

“And there it is.” I rolled onto the spot next to her on the sofa bed. “What’s the sitch?”

“This robot ninja came and chopped off Revolver Ocelot’s hand, and the old guy strapped to the bomb told me to call the Colonel’s niece before he had a heart attack and died.”

“So call her.”

“He said her number is on the back of the CD case. He gave us an optical disc, but I can’t work out how to look at the back of it.”

“We can try to solve the puzzle, or we can find our own solution.”

“What do you mean?”

“We could just go through all the numbers until we find the right one.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” asked Allison, her childish innocence not yet crushed by middle school.

I said, “I prefer to think of it as creative problem-solving.” Allison’s face scrunched up at this. “I tell you what. Why don’t we keep trying for now? We can always choose to do it my way later.”

She smiled at me brightly. “Okay.” She handed me the controller. “You take over.”

“Gee, thanks.”

As Solid Snake infiltrated the Shadow Moses Island military base on-screen, from next to me, Allison said, “So, I’ve been hanging out with Mike a lot recently. I really like him.” Mike was our thirteen-year-old neighbor.

“I like him, too; he’s a good kid.”

“No, I mean I _like_ him.”

“Oh. Oooooooh. Oh! You can’t date him. He’s too old for you.”

“I’m two months older.”

“Then he’s too immature.”

“What would you have said if somebody said that about your first crush.”

“What?” I was so put off by Allison’s question, that I almost walked right into a trap in the game. I paused the game and put the controller down. Then, my face aflame and my voice small,  I said, “I haven’t had a crush on anyone, yet.”

“Huh? But you’re two years older than me.”

“I know.” I started fiddling with the _Metal Gear Solid_ case. “I think I’m just a late bloomer. That’s what Mom always says.”

“I think she’s talking about your height.”

“I know.” Unable to meet Allison’s gaze, I studied the case in my hands. After a while, I noticed something. “Holy hell!”

“What?” asked Allison.

I grabbed the controller and went into the codec screen and entered the frequency 140.15 and hit send. It connected to a woman in a balaclava.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“The game’s case. Her number is on the back of the game’s case.”

Allison, my sweet sister, swore loudly. Her face was a mix of awe and disbelief. “What kind of game is this?”


End file.
